


Wherever I Find Myself

by RurouniHime



Series: Sarah-verse [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers in Asgard, Canon-Typical Violence, Children, Comfort Sex, Comfort/Angst, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremis, Family, Homesickness, Hurt Tony, Kid Fic, M/M, On the Run, Phil Coulson Is a Good Bro, Protective Steve, Rescue, Reunion Sex, Safe Haven, Sequel, Steve Angst, Steve Needs a Hug, Superhusbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-18 11:46:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1427317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RurouniHime/pseuds/RurouniHime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The suit is down, they have injured, and one plane is no match for what's following. But in the end, there are safer safehouses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Not One of Blood](https://archiveofourown.org/works/961678) by [RurouniHime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RurouniHime/pseuds/RurouniHime). 



> This fic is a sequel to [Not One of Blood](http://archiveofourown.org/works/961678/chapters/1884687), and takes place directly after it.
> 
> Due to multiple commitments, I won't be updating this fic as quickly as I updated Not One of Blood. But there are only three chapters and the second one is mostly done already. ^_^

_“Automatic targeting down! Barton, I need you on manual.”_

Clint unbuckles from his harness and staggers past Tony, heaving himself up into the turret with a quick shimmy. _“Ladies and gents, this may come as a shock,”_ he snarks, hooking into the comm, _“but there’s someone behind us.”_

The jet jolts as something explodes outside, then veers harrowingly downward. Tony nearly swings out of his seat, but the strap wrapped around his gauntlet keeps him there. He hitches Sarah up higher, using the first instant where the plane isn’t rocking to tug the hood of her jacket down over her face.

It’s colder than cold; with the side door blown open, the wind whips everything up like live wires. Flak spins past outside in black puffs, and another missile detonates close enough to jar the jet again. Tony curls his back toward the door, keeping Sarah shielded. His eyes meet Coulson’s where he sits beside them. Phil’s face is shockingly pale.

Steve, one arm bound tightly to the inside of the plane, leans out the door and levels his gun at their pursuer. He snaps off three shots before he hits pay dirt, then ducks back in, debris from the explosion rattling off his flak jacket. Hill spins into his spot, firing. Another explosion, a whoop from Clint, but the metallic whining outside reaches a fever pitch and the jet abruptly banks.

 _“You may want to buckle in,”_ May orders over the comm. How she remains so calm is a mystery to Tony. He itches to be at Steve’s side, but he’s out of power. What’s left of the suit is nothing but straight-up armor, for him and for Sarah, and Tony wants her behind solid metal. 

But even that won’t save her from being launched across the inside of the jet. He swivels, working Sarah’s arm free from his neck. She lets out a strangled sound and clamps tighter.

“Baby, let go. Right now.”

She obeys, but goes rigid as he scoots her off his lap into the seat beside him. She’s drowning in the flak jacket Coulson threw on her, and he can’t manage the harness around all the fabric. Coulson reaches around from the other side and buckles her in, and not a second too soon. The jet rolls so far to the left that the crates at the back go skidding. One takes Hill’s legs out on its way out the door, but she’s lashed herself well enough to keep from following it. Steve hauls her back to her feet. The look he casts at Tony over her head is grim.

Their grand getaway is heading south, literally.

The jet shudders wildly and alarm after alarm blares. May shouts a warning, but it’s impossible to make out the words over all the noise, and then something careens in through the gaping doorway, shearing off a hunk of metal as it comes. Sarah screams, and Tony throws himself on top of her, feels the thud as shrapnel glances off his back.

When he turns around, Steve is between them and a monstrosity of a metal suit.

Tony clearly should have killed Hammer when he had the chance, before he had the opportunity to invent the precursor to this _thing._ There’s a man in there somewhere, wrapped in hulks of machinery. Steve deflects a punch and dents metal with a kick, but the suit is twice as big as the most recent Iron Man armor, twice as clunky, and armed to the teeth. The only reason it hasn’t shot Steve yet is because he’s too close. 

One of the guns goes off anyway. Hill dives out of the way as bullets ram holes through the bulkheads. The gun pans, still firing, and Steve’s yell is audible as he throws himself into the arm holding it, wrenching it nearly out of its socket before it can get to where Tony, Sarah and Coulson sit.

Tony might not have weapons, but he’s wearing his best asset. “Phil?” 

Coulson tosses another flak jacket over Sarah and tucks her head as close to his chest as their harnesses will allow. Just as Tony lets go of her hand, the suited intruder bashes Steve onto his back on the floor and levels one of its cannons at his head. Tony launches forward, slamming into the suit and rocking it off one foot. He wheels back, punches, punches again, hammers his gauntlet into the thinner metal of the faceplate, and every hit drives the intruder back until the jet tilts crazily again, dumping it out the hole, a very human scream sucking in its wake.

He’s barely pulled Steve to his feet when a drone crashes into Clint’s turret, snapping the gun completely off. Smoke rolls into the bay. For a long second, all Tony can do is clutch at Steve and choke. 

_“—land, starboard engine is down, starboard engine is down!”_

Beside him, Steve sucks in his breath. Tony looks out the hole that was once the door and startles at how close the ground is. 

“At least it’s flat,” he mutters. Steve whips around, searching frantically for Sarah, no doubt, and then it’s Tony’s turn to hiss. He clamps down on Steve’s arm.

Humming straight for them, suicide speed, is another drone. It’ll hit them before they hit the ground.

Tony shoves Steve back, behind, but it’s too late, he knows it’s too late, the thing will chop the plane in half, he’ll have protection, but those jackets won’t be enough, not even for Steve, Sarah, where’s—

A flare of silver, and then light so bright it burns his eyes. Something slams into the drone from straight above. Tony has just enough time to make out a human…oid tangled up with all the metal, before the drone careens out of sight.

 _“Brace!”_ Fury shouts over the comm. Steve grabs Tony and shoves him into the wall, then presses him flat, an arm slung over their heads.

The jet bumps on the landing, jacking back into the air before hitting a second time. Tony bites through his tongue, clenches his arm around Steve’s waist. All the lights go out and then back on again, once, twice before blacking out completely. The jet rolls hard, metal shrieking as something huge snaps off, and just when it feels like it might continue right on over, it rocks back the other way and—

**

“…ony. Tony?”

The ringing exits his ears with a snap. He drags his eyelids open to find beautiful blue staring him down. Steve’s face is dirty, shallowly sliced across the forehead. A hand comes up to cup Tony’s cheek, fingers pressing firmly.

“Tony.”

“Steve,” he croaks. 

Steve’s mouth shivers into a smile. “Hey.” He nods too fast and strokes Tony’s face. “Oh, thank god. Hi.”

The jet’s belly is full of dust, rolling up through the hole in the side in sizable whorls. The aperture is even bigger now, sparks flickering from too many loose wires to count. Tony turns his head against Steve’s palm and feels a stab at the back of his skull. “Ow,” he groans. Steve’s fingers cradle the place immediately, lifting his head from the floor. “Where’s… Steve, where…”

Steve glances over his shoulder to where Tony can’t see, and he realizes the positioning of his husband’s body is intentional. Tony cranes, catches Clint moving just beyond the smoke. He’s holding a bundle in his arms, a bundle wearing a very big jacket.

Tony’s whole body jumps. “Is she alright, is she—” He grabs Steve’s arm and Steve folds both hands around Tony’s gauntlet, already nodding.

“She’s fine,” he soothes, and pulls Tony’s hand up against his chest. Shuts his eyes and gives his head a quick shake. Then he exhales unsteadily, meets Tony’s gaze. “Are you?” 

“Hey, shortstack,” Clint can be heard, almost cheerful, from his end of the plane. “How’re you doing?”

Tony can’t see her face. He strains his eyes, blinking through the smoke.

“Steve.” That’s Phil’s voice, low, and much closer.

Steve takes Tony’s face in both hands, dragging his attention back. “Tony. Are you alright?”

He clasps Steve’s wrist. Nods.

“Yeah.” Steve runs his hands down Tony’s throat and shoulders, and ends clasping his hand again. “Yeah, he’s good. Tony?” 

Tony wipes grit out of his eyes. He can feel Extremis taking care of the lump on his head already, and the rest of him is at least present and accounted for. He nods again, and Steve huffs out another breath. He thumbs Tony’s cheek one last time. Tony struggles upright, wincing at the burn of bruised muscle, and Steve backs off, one hand out to steady his progress. The inside of the plane is mostly together, amazingly enough. Couldn’t have been out for more than a moment. Steve gets to his feet and Tony follows, his legs wobbling him nearly to his knees again. Clint’s still trying to redirect Sarah’s attention, but Tony can see her twisting in his arms now, struggling to get the hood of the jacket out of her face. 

It’s that which makes him stand up straight. By the time Clint approaches, there’s no pain left to speak of, just a gentle vertigo trickling away.

“Papa?” Sarah rubs at her cheek, hand lost in the sleeve of the jacket. She leans toward him, and Clint grunts, wrestling for a tighter hold. Tony catches her against his chest, sharing the load.

“You worried?” He smiles and bumps her cheek with his nose, gathering her fully into his arms. “You know I’m invincible.”

Steve’s hand slides up his nape and squeezes.

“Everyone up?” It’s Fury, lurching out of the cockpit with May’s arm over his shoulder. He surveys the mess and coughs. “Let’s move, people. They’re not done with us yet.”

Hill climbs down out of the hole first, and Clint drops to the ground after, handgun raised. But the immediate vicinity of the wreck is devoid of motion. Just dust and blackened earth. One of the wings is half torn from the body of the jet, kicked upright at a strange angle. The sweet smell of burning grass fills Tony’s nose. Ahead, Clint creeps forward, then silently signals the all-clear.

Fury eases May over the side, careful of her bad leg, then follows. But Steve ducks back through the opening as soon as he peers out, turning Tony and Sarah back into the darkness. “Close.” 

Thank god for super hearing. Tony retreats into the plane’s carcass, and Fury draws his weapon, closing ranks. May crouches, raising her gun. Her bad leg stretches to the side, awkwardly propping her up. Phil is pale as snow but standing, studying the lay of the field they’ve landed in. Tony can’t tell if his wounds have reopened, not with the flak jacket still on.

A shape appears out of the dust to the left. 

“Suit,” Tony hisses. He sets Sarah down and moves in front of her, and Steve jumps out of the plane, bracing for hand to hand.

But the figure that finally materializes is no suited soldier, though he is nearly as tall. Steve sags and wipes a hand over his face.

“My friends,” Thor calls, spreading his arms wide. It’s more growl than greeting. Mjölnir is at his belt, and behind him—May raises her weapon, but Sif doesn’t even blink, just tosses what’s left of the drone that tried to kamikaze the jet away, one-handed. Thor strides forward, his pace resolute.

“Sir,” May mutters to Fury.

“You won’t need that, Melinda,” Phil manages, but she still looks unsettled, and Tony can’t really blame her. The last time he saw that expression on Thor’s face, his brother had just landed NYC in a world of hurt.

Clanking—

A suited soldier charges out of the dust, straight at the plane. Thor’s face contorts. Without breaking stride, he steps into the juggernaut’s path, wheels a fist back and swings straight into the soldier’s head, smashing so hard the entire suit flips, skidding across the earth in a long furrow.

Sif utters some low, ominous word. Her fingers flex around the hilt of her sword.

Thor continues toward the plane and grasps Steve’s arm. “Are you injured?”

“Yes,” Steve answers, a single look back. Thor’s gaze darts past him, taking in the ragtag group. His eyes darken.

“There will be blood for this,” he utters. Sif comes up behind, and as she nears, the air thickens. Tony eyes the bright silver blade she carries, astonishingly clean even for such a well-kept weapon. Her face goes softer when she sees Sarah.

“Jane?” Clint asks. “The kids?”

“They are well. Can you stand a moment longer?” Thor asks, taking his hammer from his belt. 

“We’ll manage.” Steve beckons the rest of them close. Clint comes back to help Phil out of the craft, and Tony hands him down carefully. Phil’s skin is getting whiter and whiter, and from the stiffness to Clint’s jaw, it’s clear that the clock is ticking.

Thor nods to Sif. “My lady?” 

“Sir,” May warns again, but Thor cuts through.

“I would remove you from danger while we are still able.” He meets May’s gaze steadily. “Then you may place your trust when and where you will.”

May’s jaw clenches, but it’s clear she’s in no shape to argue, and she knows it. Sif steps right through the middle of their group, and the hum grows denser. Tony can physically feel the air, like thick cream. He has no idea how he’s still able to breathe. The sword’s blade glows even paler than white, a color Tony has never, ever seen before. Sif reaches out with one hand to guide Tony from the jet’s belly. 

Tony just picks Sarah up again, hitching her higher on his hip and catching Steve’s eye. “Hey, go slow. Not all of us are made for this.” 

Sif tilts her head. “When have I ever gone easy on you, Stark?” But her grip is gentle as she helps him down and steps away. She touches Sarah’s arm, looks her right in the eye, and smiles for a long, quiet moment. “Shut your eyes, little one.”

Sarah tucks her face against Tony’s neck. He can feel the heat of her breath against his skin. Steve steps up behind them.

They hear the drone coming, but Sif’s sword cleaves a fierce arc from sky to earth. They are long gone before it gets near.

~tbc~


	2. Chapter 2

There’s a fountain in the corner of the room that seeps gold around its base like liquid light. The water shimmers as softly as the finest stream. On the bed, Sarah’s hair spills over the linens. She and Jane’s youngest lie with their elbows linked, sharing a pillow. 

The bed is the biggest Tony has seen yet. Thor’s elder daughter breathes shallowly against Sarah’s other side, and next to her, two little boys who could be twins. Their faces are as chubby as angels’.

It’s quiet. There are no windows in this room. Scrollwork plays over the walls, silver to green to gold. It would be easy to get lost in.

“You need sleep.”

Tony shifts weight, re-crossing his arms. The room is warm, and still he feels chilled, a fine layer of ice between skin and muscle. He turns to face Steve. His husband stands with one hand on the door frame, in a loose tunic and pants. His hair has a heavy, damp look, but it’s hard to see in this light.

Steve steps forward, coming fully into the doorway. _“I_ need you to sleep.” Calm, but still, there is a plea in it. Tony meets his eyes for a long struggle of a moment, then faces into the room again, slumping back with a sigh. 

“Can’t stop looking at her,” he whispers. 

He’s dead tired. Fall-on-his-face tired. If he moves a step from this wall, he’s going to collapse. But it’s as if he’s strung up by a tether that leads straight from his chest to the bed in front of him. Each breath Sarah takes, he notes it. Each twitch of her nose, he sees. He’s tried to look away, but has unerringly failed, three times for three.

He can hear Steve thinking over his words, taking his time with it. And they have time, for once. Even locked in the safe-house, splicing together the machinery that would let them talk to their teammates, Tony had felt the weight looming over his head, the inevitability of being hunted. It doesn’t feel quite right with that weight missing, and he can’t completely slough the memory.

“She’s safer here than she’s ever been,” Steve murmurs at last. “Nothing is coming through those doors that Eir does not personally allow.”

Their room, too. Hell, their whole wing, most likely. The healer’s gaze had been more of a fortifying support than anything else, even stronger than Thor’s presence, and Tony may not particularly like magic, but he can feel when it’s meant to help and when it’s meant to harm. What holds sway over this part of the palace is the farthest from harm that Tony has ever felt. 

“I know.”

And yet, when he doesn’t move, Steve says nothing. Tony knows Steve’s feeling it too, and is surprised at his stoicism. Steve had been the one on the lam for days, not even knowing if Sarah was alive. Tony at least had her in his arms every minute. He can’t imagine what Steve must have gone through, out there in the dark.

He loses time, staring at Sarah’s form under the blankets, shrouded in that easy illumination. Even that persistent chill can’t pierce the fog.

“Tony?”

He shudders out of it, a blink and a breath, and finds Steve so close, close enough to smell. Clean, like the ocean, and something deeper, something that is this place. And yet it brings Steve fully into being in his mind, a burst of scent-memory heady enough to taste. Tony reaches for his husband’s side, splays a hand across firm muscle. There will be no bruising now, but he can recall the color vividly, and the raging heat of swollen flesh. 

Steve takes his hand and presses Tony’s palm to his mouth. “I need you to come in and shut the door.” He draws breath. “Right now.”

Tony stares, locked finally on something other than their daughter. The peculiar rawness in Steve’s voice goads every nerve to standing. A faint warning goes off in Tony’s head, but Steve’s here, he’s… he’s fine, he’s not hurt. Tony can even feel him breathing, and still, it’s not enough, not when Steve’s voice tilts in _that way._

“Are you—” He runs his hands down Steve’s sides. Looks him over, his mind torn between his husband and his child. Panic spikes. “Are…”

Steve’s already shushing him, nodding. Placing Tony’s hand flat over his heart and holding it there. Telling him he’s fine, _but you, you’re not, do you see?_ Tony’s nerves come down with each beat of Steve’s heart. He shuts his eyes and sways, and Steve reels him gently back.

“Come to bed.”

Tony takes a deep breath, almost deep enough to make him cough. Nods.

A door that size should groan when it shuts, but it makes no sound at all. Just the ever-present hiss of water. Steve leads him across the room, torchlight flickering over their forearms. Their room has no windows either, but the wall is full of alcoves as if a window had once sat in each, vast vistas broken by columns that gather the silver off the water, as if collecting the light. The reflection beams coolly off the stone into the room.

The bed in the center is lush with cushions and mounded coverlets. Steve kneels on the mattress and tugs Tony after him, turning their hands to clasp each other. Tony shuffles up against Steve, into a kiss that drags longingly over his mouth. Steve savors tongue and teeth, then pulls back.

“Are you alright?” Half of Steve’s question is lost against Tony’s lips. He cradles Steve’s head, tugs Steve’s shirt up so he can touch him.

“Of course.”

Steve bends to kiss his ear, but holds Tony carefully in place. “No. How are you?”

His fingers slide through Tony’s hair. If Tony shuts his eyes, it’s almost like home, their bedroom, their scents and selves. And Tony really considers the question, whether his pulse has truly calmed, whether his thoughts still linger on the edge of spinning. As soon as he can, he returns to Steve’s mouth. “Better every second.”

“Missed you.” Steve lets go of Tony to get his shirt off, pulling it over his shoulders and dropping it on the bed beside them.

“Your ri—mm, ribs up for this?” Because he knows where this is going now, and it’s going there fast; the instant he gave in and started touching Steve—not his face or his hands, but his _body,_ his chest and flanks and the coarse curl of hair circling his navel—he knew he wouldn’t be capable of stopping until he’d tracked all of it again, kissed it, traced the heat of Steve’s blood through his skin until he’s sure Steve is all there. He makes quick work of Steve’s sleep wear; Steve stops him long enough to finish the kiss properly, and then rises onto his knees to make the job of unclothing him easier.

God, but Steve is made for this place. All that smooth skin over curves of muscle, perfect proportions, the glint of hair making him look like he’s fashioned out of gold. Tony has never seen so many exquisitely sculpted people as he has in Asgard, but here, now, it’s clear to him that the loveliest of them never came from this land at all.

When Steve finally kicks the pants from his feet, he rights himself and draws Tony closer, straddling his lap. “Go to town,” he breathes. 

They didn’t have time at the safe-house, not for more than a stolen kiss or touch. Not with Sarah there, and neither of them willing to leave her alone anyway. Now, Tony takes Steve’s face fiercely in both hands and seizes the kiss for himself. He’s damn well not going to lose this taste again.

“Thought about you every second.” He reaches into the humid space between them and takes hold of Steve, stroking gently upward. A huff clicks its way out of Steve’s throat. He ducks his head, the expression on his face caught. Tortured. Tony noses him up, brushes against Steve’s mouth. “Whole time, I tried to think where you’d gone.”

_But I couldn’t get to you, and it kills me. It’s killing me even now._

Steve groans and surges up, yanking Tony close and trapping his arm between them. Tony keeps stroking, firming his grip, thumb against the head, arching into each shudder of Steve’s hips.

When Steve’s gasps come steady across his cheek, the hint of a word riding each exhalation, Tony eases off, draws long and slow instead, twists as he rises. He thumbs Steve’s nipple, presses just sharply enough with his nail. Steve allows it for an endless instant, then grabs his wrist and mouths the inside of it. Tony feels the edge of teeth, the static of a single second, stretching.

“You and Sarah stopped,” Steve manages finally, adjusting Tony’s arm around the back of his neck. Their chests come together, sweat-slick. The room feels like it’s boiling, and Steve holds Tony’s gaze from inches away. “At that store?”

“She got sick,” Tony whispers, and Steve pauses. The old misery tries to rear its head, but there’s not enough room for it here: Steve has always pushed all of that out. Tony strokes his face, wondering.

“And,” Steve tries, but Tony takes the kiss and his words, and for a blistering moment, there is only the thick silence of the precipice. Steve ducks out of it to drag in a breath. 

“And you?” he finishes.

“You know me.” Tony pushes close, all up Steve’s front, and takes hold of him again, stroking to end it this time.

“Yeah, I do.” The words run together. Steve drops his head to Tony’s shoulder, mouths his skin in kiss after formless kiss, arching into each stroke. _“Tony—”_

“Come on, babe,” right in Steve’s ear. “Come on, give it up.”

Steve does with a ruinous groan, a shade too loud. Tony basks in the sound and strokes Steve through it, drawing it from him in agonizing, interminable heaves. Steve’s teeth latch in hard, Tony winces, and then Steve sighs the rigidity right out, slumping against Tony.

It’s the best weight in the universe, heat and sweat and Steve all over him. Tony clenches Steve’s hair, mashes his lips feverishly to Steve’s forehead. Barely a kiss at all. He breathes in, breathes in again, the tumult of oxygen fogging his vision. Steve’s shoulders jump with the desperate breaths he takes, and he’s... shaking, he’s downright trembling. 

Tony leans away, trying to catch his eye. “You okay?”

Steve counters with his weight until all Tony can do is fall backward. But though Steve keeps the tumble slow, both hands tight to Tony’s ribs, the purpose is undeniable, Steve urging him onto his back and following without breaking contact, sweeping all that skin over Tony’s body. Steve cradles his face and kisses him, again and again, deep, debilitating kisses that taste too much of salt, that yank at Tony so far beneath his heart that he can’t make a sound under the onslaught. Steve’s hands leave his face to skate over his body, a rough track. Friction-burns.

And then Steve is shaking outright, his face shoved into the crook of Tony’s throat, unable to keep silent.

“Oh, babe.” Tony folds Steve close, tries to stifle the wracking shudders, but they pass right into him, pulling until it’s all he can do to keep from following suit. And he can’t. He can’t join Steve in this, Steve needs him not to, Steve won’t want to break any more than he already has.

But it’s a big break. Tony swallows past the heat in his throat, kisses Steve back whenever his husband’s mouth grazes his, strokes his face and listens to him cry, feels every inch of the trail Steve’s lips leave over his face, the track of hands over stomach, chest, thighs, cock, ass, no place getting more attention than any other. Just this painful, _painful_ remapping that Tony knows is not sticking in Steve’s head, the way his hands return to the expanses they just left, the way he gasps as desperately as he must have when he was young. He kisses Tony’s throat, teeth again. And then Steve just collapses, one arm curled around Tony’s head as if to shield him.

Tony wraps him up tight, arms and legs, and holds on.

“I thought you were dead, both of you.” It rolls out of Steve in a gush. “I lost you, the Tower fell and I couldn’t get back to you, I wasn’t _there._ I couldn’t do it.”

Couldn’t save them. All this strength and, in Steve’s mind, it came to absolutely nothing. Steve takes Tony’s face in his hands again, and this time Tony sees the tears easily, the shattering still occurring with a vengeance behind Steve’s eyes. “I don’t know what I’d do. If you weren’t here, if you were gone—” The frenzy works higher with each word. “I can’t. I can’t do it, fuck, I can’t do that, I can’t live like that, Tony—”

Tony tries to kiss him silent and fails. He can’t keep up. He hears each word like the stab it must be to Steve.

“I’m right here,” he says weakly, not sure there’s anything that can stop this flood until it stops itself. “I’m right here.”

Steve makes the most wounded noise Tony has ever heard, and kisses him so ferociously his heart feels like it has stopped. Oh, _hell,_ he needs his husband right the fuck now, and it’s a good thing Steve’s in the same state of mind, hitching Tony against the pillows and insinuating himself between Tony’s thighs. God, this is just where Tony wants to be, just like this, only more. Whatever edge was taken off by Steve’s first orgasm has been swallowed up. His husband sucks his fingers into his mouth, then opens Tony up with a thoroughness that shouldn’t exist at this speed, and whoever would have thought that Extremis would assist in the best sex of Tony’s life? But it does, it always does, flipping the ache into an intoxicating thrum. But they’re still human, they still need lube, where are they going to get—

Steve shoves his fingers against Tony’s prostate and Tony’s vision slams white. He grapples, illogically trying to pull Steve in somehow, pull them together. This’ll hurt no matter how they do it, not in the physical way so much as every other way. Steve lunges sideways, wrenching out of a kiss, and— fucking hell, that’s, he prepared for this, he— where did he find that, who did he—?

Doesn’t matter _at all_ when Steve gets his fingers back in him, slick and warm. Tony could live on this, except for how it’d never be enough. He doesn’t know what kinds of sounds he’s making, but Steve shushes gently, easing him back and gathering his legs up under the knees, canting their bodies closer. Tony grabs Steve’s hair, pulls him up into another kiss. “Go, go now, god, babe, you’re—”

In him. _Oh—_ Tony seizes up, not meaning to, not meaning much of anything. Want is all he knows. Need. For something he has all of and yet so very fucking little. It’s not fair of the universe to put these kinds of needs in people and then not hand over the goods. Steve’s groan is lengthy and broken, half a sob as he settles into Tony.

“Steve, I’m...” Speaking is unusually arduous; he can’t get the rest out, if there is a rest. Steve’s shoulders hunch, his arms recreating a shelter for Tony’s head, his hips hitching up viscerally into Tony’s. On the gasp that follows, Tony finds words. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”

God, what is he sorry for? He did what he had to do, what they’d agreed had to be done, but—

“Don’t, don’t be sorry.” Steve interrupts himself with kissing Tony, pushing deeper into him with a thrust that has Tony biting his lip hard.

“I am.” He’s going to cry, it’s building like a giant fist in his gullet. The last time he cried while having sex with Steve was when he realized that life as he knew it was over: anything less than having Steve for good would be a particular kind of hell, and no matter what happened, who he met or what he did, he would never fully get over it. It had scared him to death. Not even Steve’s most physical and sincere return of affection had been able to quell that end-of-days feeling.

He can’t stand it that he couldn’t save Steve this time. Protect Steve. Sarah or not, he’s—he failed his husband, he failed himself. It’s unreasonable, it’s stupid, and yet he can’t get past it or rationalize it away. “I _need_ you, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I didn’t—”

Steve presses his forehead to Tony’s chest and shivers. When he turns his head, his eyelashes brush damp against Tony’s skin. He winds his fingers into Steve’s hair, covers his mouth with the back of his hand, and when he can’t stand it anymore, when his throat rages and his eyes blur, he pulls Steve up again and retakes his mouth brutally.

If asked later, he’ll never be able to describe what Steve does next. But his body remembers. His skin recalls the burn of Steve’s palms down his sides, the knock of his knee into Steve’s shoulder, the vise of Steve’s fingers around his thigh. Steve fucks him like he has already half-climbed inside him, full-bodied and broken, such a supreme lack of finesse. Tony speaks that language, licks sweat like water and relishes the friction against his back, tugs his husband close, further in, _all_ the way, damnitfuck _Steve,_ “Steve, St—”

He stutters, gives up on speaking, and then Steve lifts him up into his lap and hauls him close, and it’s not a rhythm so much as a dangerous roll and sway, Steve so deep inside him there’s no room left to maneuver. Tony crosses his ankles over the small of Steve’s back, curls his spine, clenches until every nerve is on fire and Steve’s voice rasps with every breath. Fuck, he’s tired, he’s so exhausted, but this is everything. This isn’t going to stop until he can’t move anymore, until his muscles dribble away and Steve is boneless and dismantled in his arms.

He comes in a rush, head rocking back, nerves zinging, hurting, so, so _good,_ Steve, _Steve,_ it’s all Steve, the entire universe and all Tony knows.

Steve lays him back down and fucks him hard, raw, oh god, perfect. Tony huffs, grips, clenches rhythmically until Steve is shaking apart, and then he gets a hand on Tony’s face, his palm slick with sweat and hot as fire—rubs his thumb in a swipe across Tony’s cheek. And comes.

When Steve is done, he’s so still that Tony can hear his own heartbeat. He traces a hand clumsily up Steve’s spine, watching his wrist tremble, trying to smooth it out. His fingers flutter oddly over Steve’s skin as if they don’t belong to him, and Tony stares, dazed. 

Finally, Steve stirs, turns his head and presses openmouthed to Tony’s throat. His arms slide tighter, slowly, until he’s embracing Tony firmly enough to make breathing difficult. Tony squeezes back as hard as he can, and shuts his eyes.

There’s a wistful sense of disquiet when Steve pulls out of him. Tony gets him back down atop him as soon as he can and they lie there, breathing heavily into the quiet room. He’s not sure how much time passes. He doesn’t drift. His body’s too alive, too aware of Steve in his arms, too unwilling to forgo that offering. He’s been without it long enough, conscious of every splitting second.

“You asleep?” he whispers after a minute, curious.

“No.” Steve shakes his head, a slow back-and-forth that nudges Tony’s chin. Steve’s stubble leaves a haze of warmth across Tony’s flesh, and it’s that which raises him out of his stupor for good, the fact that Steve has the beginnings of a beard. Hasn’t shaved it away, hasn’t… hasn’t paid attention to something so domestic since they left the safehouse.

“God, I love you.” Tony cranes awkwardly until he can kiss Steve’s hair, afraid it won’t smell like Steve now that he’s bathed in this alien place, but it does. It does.

“What did they do to you?” he asks, because he can now. Sarah isn’t here to hear it.

“Nothing that stuck.” Steve sounds almost drugged. Sex does this to him, leaves him in a pliant torpor that—oh, but he’s rousing now. Clearing his throat and shifting just enough to remind Tony of his weight. “Fight broke my ankle. My leg was a through-and-through, hurt like hell once I got clear. Took a few bad hits to the ribs. You saw my wrist.”

Tony hums. Easy to do now that there’s no sign of injury left.

“They followed me. I don’t know how many. Don’t know how many I killed.” There’s little emotion in Steve’s voice. Tony’s not sure what to make of it, but he knows what he makes of the entire situation: he’s ecstatic that they’re dead and Steve’s alive. He wonders if Steve is wrestling with it, or if he’s too tired to bother. If he’s even moved by it at all under these circumstances. Imagining Steve delivering a death blow is a strange sort of horror, but— 

If he’d been faced with human assailants instead of machines, Tony knows without question that he would have killed to keep Sarah alive.

Saying he’s happy about those deaths feels like a perilous tightrope he doesn’t need to walk at the moment, though. Tony runs his hand, much steadier now, down Steve’s back.

“And when I was cornered,” Steve continues, like an afterthought, “someone helped me. Didn’t need to, but she helped. Otherwise…”

He doesn’t finish, and that’s just fine. “You got rid of your phone.”

Steve shrugs. “They were likely tracking it.” He lifts his head, looking closely at Tony. “They… tracked you.”

“I made a mistake. I called Pep.”

Steve doesn’t ask. He already knows all that Tony can offer concerning her whereabouts; they had that whispered conversation while Sarah hummed and splashed in the safehouse bathtub the day after Steve arrived. Steve’s gaze is too perceptive, though, and turning with devastating speed.

“Tell me,” he begs. It cuts Tony between the ribs. He sighs into the space between them and noses beneath Steve’s chin until Steve’s smell is all he knows.

“I got shot.” He leans back again to hold Steve’s gaze. “Okay? It’s done and it’s gone.”

Steve’s expression pulls the rest out without him saying a word, but then, Tony knew it would.

“She saw the blood.” He frowns, remembering. “Scared the shit out of her.”

Steve drags him even closer somehow, something very near a groan from his throat. His arm locks firmly into place around Tony, and there isn’t an inch of his attention held back. Tony kisses the edge of Steve’s mouth as his husband’s hands run down his sides again. He can’t even remember the pain, but he remembers heat like a wave across his flesh, the rasp of stiff fabric over his ribs afterward and the touch of Sarah’s fingers like his skin was again aflame. 

He stills Steve’s hand right over the spot and squeezes. All other movement vanishes, just Steve’s thumb tracing a slow circle over the place where the bullet zipped through. As if he can feel its echo.

It solidifies: he has to… has to get Steve in him again somehow, all through him the way they were before the attack, because he can’t name the instinct, but he knows Steve doesn’t have that tether anymore. He’s struggling without it, battling his own mind for control, rationalizing and likely losing that fight if the desperation moments earlier is anything to go by. Tony can’t remember seeing his husband so brittle, so unable to be careful, to keep himself in check.

He wonders, as he rolls Steve resolutely onto his back and straddles his hips, if he himself is coming across as collected. Lacing his fingers through Steve’s, leaning down until their noses are an inch apart and watching the way Steve’s throat ripples… Tony sincerely doubts it. 

** 

He wakes to a soft rush. Wind? His mind tries to slither back out of reach and he turns his head until sunlight washes over his eyes.

“Tony.”

He feels so damn rested. Can’t remember being this anchored. Not one atom of him is twitching, planning to spring.

“Tony?”

“Hmm.”

Steve’s lips brush his face. He’d know them anywhere. “Babe, wake up.”

Tony curls his fingers in Steve’s clothing, and Steve comes willingly, leaning into him and smelling fresh like the ocean. Tony inhales, meets Steve’s mouth—the kiss turns heartbreakingly sweet, loaded with so many hours of broken sound and bare flesh that Tony can’t help the needful whimper.

Steve drifts out of the kiss, refusing to be hurried, and drags the tip of his nose along Tony’s cheek. “She’ll be in here in a minute. I got you some water. Linens in the trunk.”

Tony sighs. The bed. He murmurs an affirmative and Steve lets him back down amid the sheets and scent, of his husband and of him. Sue Tony if he doesn’t want to let it all go so quickly. 

Steve moves away, and Tony blinks, rubbing at his face. He doesn’t remember any windows, but... ah, the ceiling has opened in part, or gone transparent, he can’t tell yet. But the light is soft and golden, early morning strength coupled with late morning heat. Like he’s been lying out in a hammock, the sun climbing steadily over his legs. The walls have gone gold, as if radiating that heat, and... Yes, wind above, but not a thread of it slinking down into the room.

He pulls himself upright and runs a hand through his hair, pushing the sheets aside. They’re not exactly sheets; some Asgardian equivalent that cradled Tony’s body all night like that bearskin rug he owned ages ago, before he couldn’t face Pepper’s disgust anymore and got rid of it.

He doesn’t want to think of her right now, of where she might be. The simple fact, though, is that he _can’t_ think of her now; he gets to his feet and stretches, loosing a shiver that rolls from fingers to toes. There’s a basin of clean water in one of the evenly spaced alcoves, and Tony does his best to get the remnants of the night off of his skin. He locates a pair of pants clearly made for sleeping and pulls them on—they fit rather well, even if they are too long in the leg—then sets about stripping the bed.

“Trunk, trunk—” He finds it at last, a massive chest with twining gold serpents all over it, devouring each other as they undulate from end to end. For all its heft, the lid is shockingly light. Tony rummages around until he finds replacements for everything now piled in the corner. It takes a bit of work to make the bed again, but at last it’s done, and he sighs back down onto the pallet, drawing the covers up to mid-chest.

Huh. Even standing up didn’t pull him thoroughly from sleep. This bed invites rest, almost tugs him back toward it. He wonders if it’s enchanted, but—

Well, judging from how tired he and Steve suddenly _weren’t_ last night, maybe the enchantment is more about what the user needs.

Not a moment later, the door swings wide under Steve’s outstretched arm. He doesn’t enter immediately, and a second later, Tony sees why: Sarah comes in under his arm, carefully holding something that looks like a cross between a tray and a box. Dark wood, deeply set with handles on either end. Steve follows, a second tray balanced in his free hand. Sarah sees Tony and jumps a bit, then remembers her burden and shuffles across the room.

“Papa.”

“Hi, sweetcheeks.” He sits up against the wall—the stone is indeed warm—and takes the tray so she can clamber onto the bed. It’s high, but she makes it, shuffling over his legs and plopping down against his side. Tony kisses the top of her head and snugs her closer. “How’d you sleep?”

“Good.” Her eyes are bright, cheeks flushed. Hair combed, if wild; dressed in what Tony supposes are day clothes here. They look cute on her, loose and flowy.

He kisses her again, then sets the tray in their laps. “What’s this?”

“Breakfast. I helped.”

He glances at Steve and gets a tolerant smile in return. “Thor came and got the kids this morning. Little bit of a distraction.”

And a good thing, too. Tony feels physical pain on behalf of whoever had to clean up that kitchen. By the look of things, though, someone here knows what they’re doing. Sliced meat, a generous loaf of herb bread, something that looks like eggs, except the yolk is much paler. Sweet-smelling creamy froth in a bowl. “This looks fantastic, honey.”

“It’s heavy. Daddy carried it.”

How long has Steve been up? Just the thought of him out of the room while Tony slept on sends ice up his spine. He takes a quiet breath. They’re safe, damn it. It doesn’t matter where Steve goes here, he’s not in any danger, and neither is Sarah.

Though he doubts Steve left their daughter in that kitchen or whatever for any stretch of time.

Steve takes a seat on Sarah’s other side, and they eat in comfortable silence. The second tray holds more food, and thick tumblers full of pink liquid that tastes something like kiwis. Tony hasn’t thought about food in ages, but all it takes is a single bite to show him how hungry he is. Luckily, Steve and Sarah brought a lot.

“How’s Phil?” he asks once he’s taken the edge off, and Sarah looks up, a half-eaten slice of bread forgotten in her hands.

But Steve smiles easily. “He’s good. Had a long night. He’s sleeping it off.”

“Is he sick?” Sarah asks.

“A little, but he’ll be fine. Uncle Clint’s with him.”

Sarah goes back to her bread, unconcerned as only a child can be. Tony gives silent thanks for the skills of the healers here.

In the light of day, it’s hard not to think about Natasha, too, about where Rhodey might be. Whether Happy’s hurt, whether Pepper’s brand of Extremis has done its job, and Bruce and the rest… Was the academy attacked, too? How far did this campaign stretch?

He misses JARVIS. It’s hard to quell the instinct to just ask for answers, but he refuses to bring that detail back into Sarah’s periphery. Sarah has never thought of JARVIS as just a jumble of coding like Tony used to, or a grand sort of computer like Steve. To her, he’s always been JARVIS. Tony’s not sure how she perceives the AI in physical terms, but it will take more explanation—and a bigger leap of faith—than he’s capable of right now to assure her that JARVIS is not dead.

Tony shakes himself inwardly. He takes another drink of his juice and leans back into Steve’s hand, now absently stroking his nape. At the moment, what he needs is his daughter and his husband, and the knowledge that most of their unconventional family is safe and accounted for. The rest will have to wait.

~tbc~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because you _know_ they were overdue for that. ^_^


	3. Chapter 3

“No,” Sarah shouts, cheeks flushed an angry red. “We always have my birthday with noodle bowls!”

“Sare-bear,” Tony says, grabbing her arm and pressing it gently back to her side, “this year we’re going to try something new, okay? There’s that pastry dish you told Sif you loved, the one with the purple berries.”

She kicks out, shaking his hold long enough to wiggle backward, and Tony lunges, struggling to get hold of her again. It’s not easy; the flailing has turned into an all-out fight. She shouldn’t have this much energy, not after an hour of this shit. 

“I don’t want purple berries! I don’t want to stay here anymore, I hate it here!”

“Sarah,” Tony bites out as her elbow hits him in the chin. His eyes water fiercely and he grits his teeth. “Sarah! Cut the crap right now or you’re not going anywhere with the girls for the next week.”

“I don’t care!” The screams have dipped into wails, but there is real fury behind it. She’s long past the point of no return. “I hate this place, I want to go _home!_ I want my room! I hate you!”

He snatches her up as she launches herself out of his grip and drags her kicking and crying back into his lap before she can brain herself on the floor. “Sarah Virginia, so help me god—”

She screams so loudly his ears ring.

The door opens and Steve rushes in. As soon as he spots Tony tangled up with their daughter on the sitting cushions, he freezes, then crosses the room quickly. “What—”

Tony lets go of Sarah with a vengeful growl and gets to his feet. “Thank fuck,” he hisses as he passes his husband. “You’d better take her or, Steve, I swear to god—”

“Okay, okay.” Steve stalls Tony with a brief grip to his shoulder. His thumb rubs for a second, but Tony is nowhere near the right mood for it to help. Steve tilts his head at the door. “Go, take a walk.”

He looks tired; the lines between his eyes have deepened, and despite the comfort of their surroundings, there’s been a tension this past week that just will not leave Steve’s frame. Tony glares back at Sarah where she’s scrunched up into a ball on the cushions, tears leaking from her eyes. She gives him such a hateful look that Tony turns away.

His jaw clicks; he knows Steve hears it. “Good fucking luck,” he mutters, and hears Steve exhale behind him.

Tony goes into their bedroom and wrenches what passes for a jacket in Asgard off the bed, yanking it on over his arms. As he crosses back to the main door, Steve shucks his cloak and sits down on the cushions behind Sarah, one hand out to stroke her back. “Kiddo.”

“I want to go back home,” she cries. The tears fill up the words this time, and in spite of himself, Tony’s heart clenches.

“Sarah, we can’t go home,” Steve says, low. “You know what happened to the tower, we talked about this.”

Fuck it. Tony shuts the door firmly behind him.

It takes him a bridge and three corridors the length of a New York City block to wind enough of the frustration out and slow to a normal pace. It’s chilly out, the air crisp and sweet-smelling, like lilacs. Back home, the city would be baking in summer heat, the odor of oil and asphalt and greasy food on every corner, sweat in irritable swathes under the collar of his shirt, and no shoes and minimal clothing and—

“Damn it, _damn_ it.” Tony stops abruptly and squeezes his eyes shut. He rubs his forehead, the persistent headache so reminiscent of Extremis, but there’s nothing here to sync into, just a dark, sucking void when he tries, and most days he can’t help trying. It’s instinctive, like grinding his teeth while asleep; he barely knows he’s doing it.

He’s surprised she lasted this long. Sarah’s home is where her family is, that’s always been the case, but there’s only so much a kid her age can take. He _knows_ this. He doesn’t blame her at all. He angles off the stone pathway to the railing that stretches along a sparkling lake. The palace glints on the left, a massive monument of gold and amber, and everything is so damned passive here, calming and soothing and a whole bunch of other things Tony doesn’t know if he can fake anymore.

He stares out at the lake’s surface, counting each breath through his nose. Eventually someone steps up beside him.

“How’s my goddaughter?” Phil asks. That tiny, pleasant smile is on his face as always. No one would ever know he’d been at death’s door just three weeks ago.

“High-strung,” Tony mutters. He cocks an eyebrow at Phil. “Crabby. Pissed off. Seven years old. You want her?”

Even Phil’s sigh is Zen-like. “If I thought it would make a difference.”

Tony sighs, too. He turns around and leans back against the balustrade on his elbows. “Yeah.”

A moment goes by in silence. Tony massages the bridge of his nose. “She turns eight this week.”

Phil hums agreement. He’s wearing a loose sky-blue tunic belted at the waist, and simple hide trousers like Tony’s. It’s been weeks and it’s still hard to imagine him this way. Two different people. 

Tony fingers the ties on his sleeve cuffs, nearly giving in and tugging them from their lacings. “Phil, I have no idea what to do for her.”

“Unusual situation.”

“She wants to go home. Hell, _I_ want to go home. Except there’s no home to go to. We are homeless. The whole thing’s kind of beyond her.”

“Be glad it is.”

Tony _is_ glad. He has no idea how he’ll deal with the fallout when it really shows up, how long Sarah will be a card-carrying member of her family’s little nightmare club. He doesn’t want her picturing her room blown to smithereens or the kitchen lying in pieces, or thinking about how many of her friends might not be just absent but… _absent._ So far, she hasn’t touched on that yet. Thank god for the selfish bubble of childhood.

Well. There’s fuck all he can do about any of it from here. He shoves the heels of his hands against his eyes, wanting sleep more than anything, then blinks away the white spots. “Steve looks like shit,” he says, overly pleasant. “Scheming’s going well?”

“More or less.” Phil never looks upset, not that Tony has seen, but he’s got to be feeling it, the days and days spent on their asses, a whole bunch of capable proactive doers who can’t do jack. “Natasha brought us the how, which is helpful. She says Rhodes can get us the when.”

“If he’s even still alive,” Tony says dully, because he’s in that kind of mood right now. Fuck. Rhodey was alive three days ago, that’s something. “How’s Nat doing?”

“Physically fine,” Phil says. “Infection’s finally gone. She’s exhausted.” 

Tony straightens. “But she’s good, she’s—”

“Relieved, though she’ll never tell you.” Phil glances at Tony out of the corner of his eye. “All she had was two weeks of hiding and no sign of anyone else still alive.”

“Yeah, that’d do a number on _me,”_ Tony mutters, then shoves his hands against his eyes again, easing consciously back from the Extremis-edge. Shit, the person who tore his family away from him for that long—Torture wouldn’t be nearly good enough.

The void won’t fade. He pictures Steve instead, skidding to a stop in the middle of their room, the tails of his shirt framing his thighs. Dark pants, tall boots. He barely styles his hair at all these days, just blond and unruly and beautiful. 

 

Whoever the ‘who’ was back on Earth, they have no fucking idea who they’ve messed with here. Should have killed the team properly right up front. “Tell me Hammer’s involved.”

“His tech is,” Phil says. “But it’s older work, most likely retrofitted. Clumsily, too, from what we saw on the plane. I sincerely doubt he’s behind this. It’s too convoluted for his preference, too many players.” 

But all people they’ve come in contact with at one time or another. “One of these days I’m going to learn my lesson and fry their asses while I actually have them in hand,” Tony mutters.

Phil smiles faintly. “I think Steve is somewhat invested in the fact that you don’t.”

Yes. It’s mutual, painfully so. Tony gets a physical ache whenever he thinks about what his husband might become should he swing that shield just a little bit harder, pull that punch just a little bit later. So many almosts. And Tony knows his own limits when it comes to his child, his husband, but he can’t actually picture that conversation: looking Steve in the eye and admitting that he’s killed someone in cold blood.

He wants to set a good example for his daughter. Examples never mattered until she tumbled into his life; he did what he did because it felt right to him, and he scoffed at ever answering to anyone, ever apologizing for who he was. Six years later, Tony is still himself, but the changes snuck up anyway, earnest and self-driven, until he realized that there was one set of eyes he could never abide looking at him like he’d destroyed the world.

Steve he can fight. Argue with. Justify, and mean it. But kids don’t understand nuance. They don’t have the life experience to parse all the gray. It’s the purest judgment he’ll ever know.

He shakes the weight off, and the headache spikes at last. “Do not let him handle this all on his own, Phil,” he growls, thinking of the shadows in Steve’s face these days, the distracted distance in his gaze when Tony catches him unawares. “Because he’ll try.”

“I won’t,” Phil answers without pause. “First order of business isn’t up to him. We’re pooling the troops. Rhodes is rounding up who he can on his end, and Fandral dropped May and Hill back in yesterday. If anyone from SHIELD is still in hiding, they’ll find them. We’ll need all the intel Rhodes can get his hands on, military or otherwise. We won’t have much time to sort through it after we arrive.”

They really have no idea what’s been going on since they came to Asgard. The worst is being locked out of his own land by virtue of being too recognizable, his husband too easy to pinpoint, and that’s nothing next to the strobing target that Tony himself presents. All they can do is wait while others go to ground for them, ferret out the hidey holes, collect their army one by one. “Any word on Bruce?”

“Still under the radar, but the Four are as well. Natasha assures me they’re safe, ready to jump when the word is given.” 

Xavier’s people were hit too, though not as hard, and that was another costly mistake on the part of their attackers; there are a few mutants that Tony wouldn’t relish a fight with on a day when they _aren’t_ out for blood. 

They just won’t know exactly what’s in their arsenal until they land back on Earth. Tony knows, better than anyone, just how much Steve loathes working in this sort of vacuum.

“Meanwhile,” Phil says, his smile much more carefree, crinkling the edges of his eyes, “I’d better see to this birthday party.”

Tony finds himself smiling too. It could be the last celebration they have. At least he knows Phil will make it a good one.

**

He gives it another hour, until the sun has dipped half into the sea. The rainbow bridge shimmers like copper wire, and some night flower has begun to bloom, spilling heady fragrance into the twilight. Tony makes his way back to their quarters, subdued, thinking about Rhodey and Pep, Happy. Sarah’s last birthday when a thunderstorm drenched them all to the bone on their way out of the subway.

The window alcoves are all bare, enough light coming in from outside to do just about anything by. There are books spilled across the floor by the sitting cushions, and a pair of kids’ shoes Tony doesn’t recognize which are too big for Sarah’s feet. Through the doorway to their bedroom, Tony can see Steve gathering up clothing, piling it over his arm. He pauses, watches, smiles when Steve notices him.

But Steve doesn’t come out. His eyes flick and his head tilts, and Tony turns away from the door, looking for her.

She’s on her massive bed, her feet sticking off the edge as she pages through a set of drawings—Steve’s, Tony knows the style at a single glance. It’s the story Steve and Sarah have been working on, then, Sarah’s careful scrawl along the bottom. Her hair is damp, her clothing new, and more like pajamas than ever. Bathed, and probably getting hungry. But the expression on her face speaks of disinterest in what she’s looking at, or at least distraction.

When she sees him, she pulls her legs up slowly, hands closing around the drawings. Tony sits down next to her, props his elbow on his knee and his head on one fist. Sarah looks down, chewing her lip.

“I don’t hate you, Papa,” she says at last.

Tony _pft_ s gently. “Never thought you did, cupcake.” 

She shrugs, listless and still not looking at him, and he brushes the tip of his finger down her cheek. “I’m sorry, baby.”

She leans into him, more of a fall, really. The papers crinkle as he pulls her into his lap. 

“You’re right, though,” he says over the top of her head. “This place sucks a little bit.”

She huffs. Her arms tighten around him and he kisses her temple. “You want to know a secret?”

“Yeah.”

“I want to go home, too.”

“So does Daddy,” she says.

“I’ll bet he does. He misses his indoor track.”

“I miss JARVIS,” she says, very simply. Tony squeezes her tighter.

Soon. Too soon for his comfort, and not soon enough. He sees Steve leaning in the doorway watching them, and can’t think what to say, how best to take the load that is slowly bearing down on his husband’s shoulders again.

But Steve just absently fingers the hem of his tunic and smiles like he’s seeing more than just them. So maybe… maybe Tony can let it go too, just for tonight. 

~fin~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, still no battles. To me, that aspect is not the primary point of this story, so I won't be addressing it directly. Just in the ways it affects Steve, Tony, Sarah, and their non-traditional family dynamic. My apologies, action-lovers... This one's for the feels.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Maya Angelou: "I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself."


End file.
